At around Lunch-Time, two squad cars and one unmarked PT Cruiser
Electric, white-and-silver, showed up, parking suspiciously close to
Mike Scumworthy's own Lexus in front of the popular restaurant, Pocket Haven. A cop got out of each car, one of whom was Vyse (meaning Skarth was, no doubt, in the driver's seat of that car), cordoning off the area, and none other than Clayton himself stepped out of the PT. He was a little more ruffled even than usual, smoking a thin cigarillo whose slightly citrus smoke curled off in the light misty rain that covered the city today.

By now, of course, Mike was already on the sidewalk. He too was a little more relaxed than usual, though the usual fire of rivalry burned deep in his eyes like dark embers.
Clay gave a mock salute with the smoking tube, before placing a gloved
hand on the trunk of the luxury coupe, "Afternoon, Mickey."
"Gulliver." Michael replied, returning the name-stabbing in kind, "What's this about?"
"Following up a report your car was seen getting loaded at one of Skylar's clubs." Niles patted on the trunk loudly, "Pop 'er open and let's take a look."
"Got a warrant?"
"Duh." The paperwork was practically thrown to Michael, "Now then, smartass, open this bad boy up."

The trunk was opened. Inside were three large, clear bottles, full of a thick, amber fluid.

"Unrefined Yggdrisl, six letres." the detective gave a low whistle,"Enough here to make about ten of the goldstim, or three of medical. Either way, this is a controlled substance, and an expensive one at that. Got a permit?"
Mike glared, suddenly pale. He, naturally, had no recollection of these drugs, "A... a permit?"
"Come on, Mikey, it ain't rocket science."
"I... I don't have a permit."
"Great!" Niles glanced to Vyse, "Get this guy down to central."
"You... you can't arrest ME! I'm a goddamn scumworthy!"
Niles thought about that for a moment, blowing a smoke-ring, "... You know, outside of Zaxton, that would be a really weird-ass thing to say. See you in the interrogation room, Scummyboy."

****
        Thin tendrils of slightly citrus-smelling smoke had become a cloud of grey pressing against the ceiling of Pocket Haven, no doubt driving Locke LeCruset, its industrious and skilled owner, into a slight fit. After all, he was never one to waste time, but he’d been polishing the glass in his hand for a good five minutes now.

Smoking indoors at public areas had long been forbidden by Zaxtonian law, but that still didn’t stop Niles Clayton, in this case. The man, hailed as the chief of all national police, the Lord High Sheriff, had the legal right to do so. It was one of the tools availed to that nation’s detective-licenced cops and private investigators. A tool of intimidation and flare, creating an atmosphere suited to his appearance. The detective, young at that, no older than 35 (if even that old), appeared to have jumped off of the set of a Film Noir just now. He wore white pants, a white shirt, a grey, pinstriped vest, a red tie, and a great white coat, the matching hat laying lazily on the table. All of his appearance was slightly rumpled, from the loose tie and open collar to the ruffled clothing to his “I just got out of bed” hair and his “I haven’t shaved since yesterday” facial hair, all except his chin, which looked much more intentionally grown out.

The tactic worked. Nobody in the room had been able to take their eyes off of him, especially not since two patrol cops were blocking the doors. It was obvious he wanted something, and they could only hang on his every word as he tapped the ashes of his cigarillo into a waiting tray. It was a good five minutes since he entered before he finally spoke.

“Now then, what you all just saw on the sidewalk was Michael Scumworthy being taken to the station for questioning, under suspicion of trafficking controlled substances. Since I am not a beat cop, naturally one can assume that I came for another reason entirely.” He used the smoke he was working on to light a second, as the first one died down to the filter.

He scanned the room here, completely enjoying the smooth smoke, and the aura it was giving him. He was in his element. Besides Locke LeCruset, several other people were present. Kalan Michaels, a known drug-runner, freelance gunman, and all-around-punk, sat in a back corner as far away from Locke’s open kitchen and bar as possible. Walter Smith-Jameson, the sole person unintimidated in the room, thanks to his total blindness, was the servant of a powerful local entity, and sat at a table near the door, enjoying his lunch. Locke’s wife was probably upstairs, but his ex-wife, Persiphone Kursk, a wife of one of the cops near the door, now, was sitting near the middle of the room, her meal of caesar salad forgotten. Caesar Bonaparte, Head information services technician at the College of Judges, was responsible for everything from security to government websites, and he sat at the bar, off-duty, naturally, drinking a beer. Edward Coultier, the captan of the Crimson Knights, a more legal version of Kalan, sat also at the bar, eating a meal of roast chicken and duchess potatoes. There were a few others; local businessmen, mostly, or children from the high-school.

“As I’m sure most of you have noticed by this point,” suck, puff, and the cloud got a little thicker, “rather, most of you have figured out, I am here as part of the ongoing investigation into the Yggdrisl traffic in the country. I realize it was only recently made an illegal drug, and many of you who were or are on it at the time of its criminalization will no doubt resent me.”

He glared pointedly at Edward, “I don’t care if you do, as long as you keep it to yourself.”

Locke glared, here, “Really, now, what makes you think my restaurant had anything to do with this?”
“The fact that the unrefined Yggdrisl in Michael’s car was still in the car. He’s no idiot; he wouldn’t keep it somewhere it could be found unless it was on its way to a destination.”
“So, you’re suggesting it’s headed for me.”
“Not at all.” Clayton gave a satisfied puff of smoke, “But you just did.  Please head out to the car.”
A cold glare here, from the barkeep, “I have done nothing wrong.”
“Very well. André, cuff ‘im.”
Locke was read his rights, and taken away without struggle.

Here, Edward stood up, “Unfortunately, my lord, you’ve just rendered any further questioning impossible. It is illegal to be inside a business without the presence of its staff. That includes you.”
“Overruled. I would not be here without the proper access permits and paperwork. In fact, I have a warrant to search the facility.”
Edward smirked slightly, “Very well. Who do you intend to present the warrant to?”

Clayton paused for a moment, before turning, “Andre, take Mister LeCruset his search warrant.”

As the cop left again, Clayton walked up to Edward. He was a full head taller than the fencer, and considerably more heavily muscled. Not that he thought he’d be an easy fight against Edward, but intimidation was everything in this job. Equally naturally, Edward hardly blinked, glaring back at Clayton with his fire-red eyes.

“You’re being oddly vocal for someone who insists on silence in the face of authority, Captain.”
Edward gave a slight smirk, “In the face of controlling authority. You are not my employer, detective.”
“... Weren’t you a very outspoken advocate of keeping Yggdrasil legal?”
The smirk remained, “Speech does not make the criminal, detective. I would suggest you think very, very carefully about your next course of action.”
“... Duly noted. Congratulations, Captain. You are now under arrest for obstruction. Take him.”
As Edward was led rather sedately away, Clayton lit his third cigarillo, “Bonaparte.”
“Clayton.” Caesar set his hands back in his lap, before lifting one to grip the controls on his wheelchair.
“... Yggdrisl has medical uses, doesn’t it?”
“As a painkiller and sedative, but not street Yggdrisl. The two are refined differently.”
Clayton smiled a little, “The product found was unrefined. It could be made into either. Isn’t medical-grade expensive?”
“It’s well covered by the College’s medical insurance, I can assure you.”
Clayton nodded, “... Enjoy your beer. I’ll see you at work.”

A smirk, as he drifted over to Persephone. He turned the other chair at her table around, and sat, extinguishing the cigarillo with his thumb, “Hey Percy.”
“Hey Clay.”
“Enjoying lunch?”
“Yessir.”
Clayton smiled, “Good.”

And up he got again, relighting his smoke, “... How about you, pirate boy?”
Kalan chuckled gamely, giving a smirk behind his smokey glasses, “Arr, I be aight.”
Niles chuckled a bit, “... It occurs to me... you were at the pier during the last big bust.”
The smirk vanished, and Kalan crossed his arms on his chest, “That I was. And I’ve been duly tried, and cleared of any wrongdoing in the matter. No retrials.”
“That is also true.” Clayton turned his side to the person he was interrogating, placing his hand on the edge of a table, “However, you were tried for the murder of just ONE of the dead officers. I think I’ll place you under arrest for the more general charge of, well, resisting arrest at the scene.”

A flurry of movement. Kalan’s hands dived under his coat, and even as the handguns were coming out, Clayton had thrown the table up into the air, diving sideways. Kalan’s body tracked slower than his eyes, and he poured useless bullets into the table, even as he realized Clayton had hit the floor. The detective rolled backwards, drawing his own small firearm, the snubby-nosed Colt Detective Special. He fired two shots, sending Kalan’s handguns flying from his hands. He checked his aim to the man’s chest. The message was clear, but it needed stating, as Clayton picked back up his still-burning cigarillo.

“Mess with the best, Kalan.”
Kalan sighed, raising his shaking hands, before being taken away, “Make that TWO counts of resisting.”

Clayton glanced to Walter, who was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. Judging by his clothing, it was impossible he had a hidden weapon.

“Sorry Walter.”
“Mister Clayton, I find this whole demonstration in poor taste.”
Clayton smirked, “That reminds me. I know your boss has connections to Skylar, and I’m headed there after I check these men into custody. Better run along now, and tell him to put his house in order.”
Walter paused, as though blinking, though his blindfold made it impossible to judge if he did or not, “I can assure you that the Victoria Estate will give you its utmost co-operation.”

Clayton let his last smoke fall to the floor, stomping it out with a booted heel, “I’m sure. Catch you later.”

With that, he stepped out. He had work to do.